Twenty Degrees of Inseparation
by nom-omnis-moriar
Summary: A chance at knowing Sherlock is horrifically hard to earn. In a Youth Hostel in Edinburgh, Irene may just get her opportunity. Sherlock x Irene, Post Reichenbach.


This is for Francesca Wayland - writer of the sensational Neither a Soldier Nor a Gentleman - who asked for Sherlock and Irene post Reichenbach. This is for you my dear.

To my Beta, you are a Godsend. Really.

* * *

Sherlock's disguise as a consumptive crack addict is too convincing.

That may be because in the not too distant past he was one. Or perhaps it's because he is taking the role a little too seriously.

Other pedestrians that he is forced to share the pavement with are so preoccupied with their own conceited lives that they take one look at Sherlock and consider him a worthless dreg of society. Of course, this is Sherlock wants them to think.

It is this very 'disguise' that allows him to commit something so wonderfully illegal without as much as a single look. He unrolls a seemingly re-used tissue from his frayed sleeve and pretends to trip on his own laces, giving him the opportunity to hastily remove the elastic band holding the bundle together whilst his body is hunched over. Whimpering an apology to no one in particular, Sherlock unravels the tissue with a wretched expression. He then proceeds to snort cocaine in a main street in Edinburgh.

This is known as the Consistency Theory. At first glance of a person there is no doubt that you will make assumptions, call it a biased first impression if you will. Not only that, but you'll ignore anything that is contrary to these assumptions, because it is not consistent with what you want to believe. A main component of Sherlock's work has always been to look beyond this theory, which is perhaps why he is so damn good at exploiting it.

Seeing Sherlock Holmes with seven day old stubble, sunken, watery, eyes and ridiculously prominent bones is more than convincing enough to the common onlooker that he's a troubled man delving back into the depths of his cocaine habit. This, along with his obvious signs of malnourishment, is sufficient evidence enough to suggest that the man has as many antibodies as fingers and is therefore possibly riddled with any number of infections.

See him hacking up his own lungs before wincing and crossing his arms protectively across his chest? See him remove a tissue from his sleeve and miserably blow his nose?

Let us face up to the fact that if you are walking passed such a man, but too busy gossiping about so and so down the phone or ranting and raving about goodness knows what to your wretched associates, you are hardly going to distinguish between Sherlock blowing his nose or, well, to put it crudely, blowing coke. Either would be consistent with your assumptions. Whether he wipes his nose afterward for hygienic purposes or to remove any residual powder is really here nor there.

Afterwards, he decides to pretend to ask a young couple for directions, who seem so bewildered by him mumbling to himself under his breath that they send him in rather the wrong direction.

Standing in the so called lobby of the hostel would be near enough unbearable if Sherlock wasn't just beginning to feel his recent hit. There's impatience itching at his fingertips as the Swedish post grad behind the splintering plywood desk mashes his meaty hands into the keyboard at a rate so unbearably unhurried that it could compete with John, and that's saying something. At least John only pressed the backspace key 0.8% of the time. This bloke in front of him seems particularly fond of his poor spelling.

The receptionist takes a glance at Sherlock for far longer than he would like. "You're bleeding, Sir."

Sherlock inhales sharply in frustration (and also to hold back another potential nosebleed). "I was bleeding." Sherlock snaps, before getting back into character "Some absolute bastard attacked me for my phone, can you bloody believe that?"

"What, you mean here? Yeah. Yeah I think I can."

Some of the lettering has been scratched off of the receptionist's name badge, giving him the name 'Jak ov'. John might have laughed a little at that, if he were here. But, well.

In order to see the glue residue on the pin Sherlock sways a little on his feet, much like he supposes he would if he were intoxicated.

'Jakob', as Sherlock has deduced, forces out an awkward laugh as he notices Sherlock glancing at his chest. "Pretty funny, eh?"

"Oh yes, brilliant." Sherlock sneers, before snatching the keys from Jakob's palm, "Terribly witty."

Jakob looks rather bewildered, wondering if he ought to tell his boss that one of their patrons may be quite mentally unstable as Sherlock storms out of the door.

The rest of the hostel's appearance is consistent with the lobby. The overwhelming burn of bleach finds its way down Sherlock's throat as soon as he is able to jam open the door and yet it does little to improve the cleanliness of the room. The walls are painted in a vulgar rusty red colour that is no doubt meant to make the establishment look hip and quirky, but, in fact, only reminds Sherlock of the dried blood he can feel along his septum.

He considers dumping his bag at the bottom of the wardrobe, but one look is enough to tell him that it's riddled with pests due to the scattering of fine sawdust around its perimeter. The bag ends up on the mattress of the top bunk instead.

A need of something to do has Sherlock firing up his laptop, but then remembers that most of the things he does on the internet are either currently unavailable to him because he doesn't exist or because it makes him feel like his blood is replaced with lead. Scrolling through his phone offers little respite either because his inbox is entirely from Mycroft. Then the battery dies.

Eventually he curls up in his coat on top of the blankets, facing the wall and waits for the remnants of cocaine in his system to make him as unconsciously conscious as possible.

* * *

The only person he sees all day is the cleaning lady. She opens the door and sees him crawling along the floorboards, laying out a trail of sliced white bread in his wake.

There are few awkward seconds where they look at each other. Then she mutters something in Norwegian about being 'pulled backwards into the birdcage', which Sherlock thinks is an expression of shock but it sounds like she's calling him crazy.

She leaves whilst he thinks about it.

He could have seen someone else if he'd liked. At some point in the evening someone tries the lock, obviously after the top bunk, but Sherlock's key is still in the door, so no such luck.

Sherlock turns the page of his book on Sniper Rifles while bouncing on the bed and makes a sound of ecstasy so that stranger doesn't come back.

* * *

Bread's coming along nicely.

* * *

Sherlock's mobile pings while he's handing over his weekly bill for the bed. The door to the room is barely shut behind him before he pulls out his phone and reads the text.

The lack of the tell tale message tone doesn't dampen down his excitement a bit.

* * *

I

He sleeps until dusk for a lack of anything to do.

When he wakes up, he checks the bread and then rummages around for a clean set of clothes and his razor. There's only so long you can wear an identity before you become what you pretend to be after all, and the longer he stays looking like this, the more likely he'll end up scouting the back alleys for another hit. After attempting to shave in a chipped porcelain sink with no mirror, the relatively warm water of the shower is a small pleasure that Sherlock allows himself to indulge in, even if there is white residue in the corner of the shower booth that could either be some sort of hair conditioner or, well...

The energy saving light bulb (another attempt by the establishment to appeal to the younger generation by pretending to care about the environment, but instead suggests to Sherlock just how tight they are on paying for their electricity) throbbing dully in the room does not offer the best light levels for an accurate deduction.

Even over the sounds of the pipes rattling above him and the thunderous sound of the boiler Sherlock is able to distinguish the tell tale clacking of those stiletto's on the bathroom tile.

"I'm disappointed I didn't get to see your disguise Mr. Holmes."

It's the only taste of his past life he's had since the fall. He allows himself a small smile.

"Hmm, yes, well, taking into account both of our disguises for this rendez-vous I would remind you of what you said at our first meeting-"

"That disguise is always a self portrait?" Irene finishes for him, her smirk leeching into her words.

This causes Sherlock to pause at the proximity of her voice, noting how she has moved from the doorway and is now leaning against the sink (after making a small wince of disgust at the state of the surroundings). "I think I'm offended Sherlock." She begins, feigning indignation. "Exactly what does pretending to be a common prostitute suggest about me?"

"When you were younger, you felt victimised by your sex. I assume that's why you've chosen a career where you're a figure of female authority and that, not only did men fear to challenge it, they, in fact, rather...asked for it."

That Irene chooses to indulge Sherlock with neither confirmation nor praise is something that makes him feel surprisingly uneasy. "And what of your disguise Mr Holmes?" She begins, with a put upon air that does not help Sherlock's discomfort. "I'd say your tumble off St. Barts was a rather bad knock to your pride, so perhaps you no longer quite see yourself as a deity. You're still delusional of course, though whether that's still metaphorical remains to be seen."

Sherlock knows she'll save the worst 'til last. People do. Though he's not entirely sure as to why; It has nothing to with sentiment.

She whispers now; it's only due to tentative ears that Sherlock hears at all. "You are very much a damaged man, aren't you Sherlock Holmes? I can only imagine this ordeal has fractured you further."

It's not in his nature to reply to something so histrionic, but the silence between them makes him feel strangely pressured to do so. Yet he wants nothing less than for her to know how dearly he wishes to return to his London.

But a chance at knowing Sherlock is horrifically hard to earn. Only two people have had such an opportunity, and even then one of those was due to a sharing of the gene pool.

He obviously spends too much time thinking on the matter, and Irene decides to accept his silence and ask about their undertaking instead.

This fencing of words keeps the pair of them occupied as Sherlock continues to wash his poverty down the drain. That is, until the words lose their sting, or their wit, and the pair of them become desensitised. That's when Sherlock feels the rustling of the shower curtain behind him.

"I won't pull it back."

"I know. You simply wish me to know that you could, if you so desired."

Irene huffs out a laugh at his chosen verb. Sherlock is quite sure that her tongue runs along her bottom lip, if her silhouette behind the curtain is anything to go by.

* * *

IV

"Alright," Irene sighs, tossing her book aside and looking at Sherlock, who's tinkering about with what looks like a beginner's chemistry set. "I've been ignoring it since I got here, but I have to know. The bread?"

Kneeling over a series of empty milk bottles that he's been gradually nicking from the hostel, he replies, "I'm bound to sustain injuries during our undertaking, and I must reduce any possible interactions with people that haven't been looked into by Mycroft."

She watches him cut the slices of bread into small squares and add them to a couple of flasks that had previously been sterilised with an oil lamp – turned Bunsen burner.

"Run the bath, will you?" Sherlock mumbles around the glass stirrer in the corner of his mouth. "I must keep these flasks at 70 degrees centigrade"

"Will bath water even reach that temperature?"

Sherlock smirks to himself. "Already fiddled with the thermostat." He plucks the glass rod from him mouth and puts it into each of the flasks in turn for its intended use. "The culture must be incubated for at least four days if I've any chance of being successful. Which considering the facilities provided, is going to be virtually impossible."

Being as horrendously bored as she is, she reties the sash on her dressing gown and heads towards the shared bathroom, calling over her shoulder, "Virtually impossible? You'll be just fine, then, won't you?"

Sherlock turns himself away from her and pretends to search for the chemicals needed to make the culture media. For some unknown reason, her praise doesn't stoke his ego but instead makes him feel humbled. It's because she's not praising him just so he will 'shut up and behave' – as John had once said to him – he concludes. Irene, although she had a light hearted tone, was showing her trust in his capability and intellect. Sherlock was aware enough to know that it was serious declaration. His face grows warm.

In just a matter of days Irene will be gone, and as much as it pains her to see Sherlock like this, not seeing him at all seemed so much worse. They had barely touched the outskirts of Moriaty's web since her arrival but Sherlock remains persistent. She sits by the bath, fingers skimming in the water as it slowly fills.

But my God the boredom of it all! For every day of eavesdropping and investigating and brawling, there seemed to be five extra days of monotony.

The tap begins to vibrate and croak as the last of the hot water sputters into the tub. As if on cue, Sherlock kneels beside her and checks the temperature with a thermometer. When the water is finally hot enough, he places the flasks into the bath gently so as not to risk shattering the glass.

The steam billowing from the water causes both of them to flush and perspire.

Her eyes squint in thought before saying, "Penicillin. Are you making penicillin?"

With a one sided smile in praise - which churns Irene's stomach more than it ought to – Sherlock sets an alarm so that he can check on the temperature of the water every fifteen minutes. Irene wonders if that's just to give Sherlock a way to breakdown the long hours that can stretch on days such as this, when there is little to do.

"Isn't that rather dangerous, messing about with bacteria and such?"

"Fungi." He corrects, before finishing with his watch and looking at her once again. It may just be the changing atmosphere of the room, but his voice seems impossibly deeper. "And yes. Wonderfully so."

They share a look that Irene thinks she may recognise more clearly if it were on any another man.

* * *

VI

It's sometime in the morning when Irene awakes to the sounds of footsteps outside their room. She may still be half asleep, but she's certainly conscious enough to realise that the gait of the person outside the room may not be Sherlock slowly hauling himself up the stairs.

If one of them was to leave on an errand - whether it is of the killing kind or something slightly more socially acceptable – they had agreed to ascend the stairs in a 'slow, quick quick' rhythm to signal their presence to each other. To put it simply, the person on the other side of the door is not at all light on his feet.

She has heard tales from John about Sherlock's behaviour after a case. Giddy like an infant, full of energy and adrenalin even after chasing a criminal half way across London in the blistering cold when any other man would be cursing and shivering with a drippy nose.

But when Sherlock returns from one of his trips, he never runs up the stairs and he certainly never has even the slightest of smiles on his face. It's unbearably clear how uneasy he feels about taking out Moriarty's web by how little pleasure he gets from it.

Irene's first stirrings of doubt come when the key rattles in the door, and then falls to the floor. Sherlock may be many things, but clumsy he is not. She reaches under the mattress for the pistol that had come in a jiffy envelope from Mycroft just that very morning and moves towards the door.

Even if her hand is remarkably steady, she gets some reassurance from the weapon. As soon as she reaches forward for the door handle, there is silence once again. With a slow, calming breath, she throws the door open and aims.

The figure leans against the doorframe and makes no attempt to move toward her. She had expected to be wrestled to the ground as soon as the intruder was revealed yet he simply stands there, swaying slightly on the threshold. Irene is unsure as to whether the almost pitch black of the room is to her benefit.

Irene grasps her gun with both hands as he slumps forward. A hacking noise comes from his throat, and he spits blood onto the floorboards. It's clear the man is compromised and so she loosens her grip on her weapon, but it isn't until he slowly raises his head that she recognises it's Sherlock.

She drops the gun to the floor without a thought for safety and cradles his head against her chest, ignoring the blood soaking her nightdress to her skin.

Another gurgle comes from him but Irene can't distinguish if he's coughing or trying to communicate. She gently helps him to sit on the edge on the mattress, only to have him bump his head on the bed rail of the upper bunk. He might have let out a curse at that, but she pretends she doesn't hear it. It doesn't suit him.

The glass of water she keeps by the bed allows Sherlock to rinse out the blood that's congealing in his mouth. There is little that disturbs Irene more than blood stained teeth.

She heads towards the bathroom in search of the first aid kit, which could take some time as Sherlock's instruction was merely a shaking hand pointing towards the door.

"What hurts?" She calls from under the sink.

After a few seconds without a response, but with the reward of an unopened yet potentially outdated kit, she returns to their room and adds "Apart from your pride?"

Sherlock always seems to keep the tiniest reserve of energy – no matter the circumstances – to ensure people are aware of his irritation. He uses this last bit of liveliness to give her a smarmy grin.

Irene responds by shoving a wad of antiseptic soaked tissue into his mouth - perhaps with a little more force than needed – to soak up the blood from his split lip.

"What do you mean my pride?" Sherlock mumbles around the tissue, "I was successful. McHale is dead."

"And what, you decided it wasn't important to look pretty while killing him?" Sometimes Irene found it too easy to mock him. It didn't lessen the pleasure of doing so, however.

Sherlock's retort is lost in a wince of pain as she removes his blazer. His face contorts in such agony that she nearly feels herself whimper with him in some sort of pain synesthesia.

"Is it your arms?"

Sherlock manages to respond through clenched teeth. "Ribs."

Sure enough, when Irene's finished tending to the cuts on his face (Sherlock's mood being low enough that even she hasn't the spirit in her to make a joke about the gash along his cheekbone) and moves on to the rest on his injuries (again, no innuendo from her as she undresses him), there are already bruises forming on his chest, almost as purple as the silk shirt that is now cushioning her knees from the floorboards.

"There's nothing for it. We're going to have to bind your ribs."

He flat out refuses at first, but with a perfectly timed coughing fit from the damp room that makes his eyes water and has his entire body shake with pain followed by Irene threatening to contact Mycroft, he has little choice but to agree.

"I am no model for you to practise your corsetry." Sherlock warns as she moves to kneel on the bunk beside him, a roll of elasticised bandage in her hand. As it's the most he has said to her all evening; his threat has rather the opposite effect he had intended. Irene smiles to herself a little as she unravels the bundle.

She begins to wrap the bandage around his ribs, soon tiring of apologising every time Sherlock flinches or hisses through his teeth. They've both accepted that it's going to hurt regardless.

Irene decides talking might distract him. "Firstly, I can hardly go about this with the gusto that's expected of the craft. Secondly-" She pauses to lean over Sherlock's body so she is able to tuck the bandage under his arm. Her posture means she's talking directly into his ear and her voice takes on a softer tone almost unconsciously as a result. If she lost her balance, she would fall right into his lap. "- I fear a corset would have little effect on a waist as petite as yours. And thirdly-"

Kneeling behind him now, she ties the bandage, ignores Sherlock's grunt of discomfort and leans back to admire her handiwork. "How dare you even suggest that I need practice, Mr Holmes?"

He takes a deep, shuddering breath to test the constraints of the binds. "Don't think I don't know what you've done."

"What ever do you mean?"

"If I wasn't physically incommoded I'd undo this." Sherlock gestures to his back. "You've gone and tied it off with a bow."

After a few seconds of silence the pair of them burst into laughter.

Even if it's only to keep up morale, the bow will stay.

* * *

X

Their situation is dire enough that Irene can no longer muster the self assurance she once possessed. She wants to tell Sherlock how pretty the bleached white of the bandage looks against the inkblot bruises on his chest, but even she thinks it wouldn't be particularly appropriate under the circumstances.

Nor would she be to tell Sherlock how the sight of him makes her feel in a way no man has made her feel before.

* * *

XIII

Sherlock is just about well enough now to declare boredom on a half – hourly basis. Irene laughs whenever he talks. His short breaths make his voice much softer and raspier than usual.

"You sound like a swooning virgin."

Sherlock doesn't approve of that.

Irene is driven to reading him books on free running and other such long winded necessities to Sherlock's knowledge as a last resort to keep him from jumping out the window.

She'd said that once, by accident. It was only meant as another quip between them. Sherlock rarely reacts to their verbal wars, except to retort. He barely ever laughs either.

He certainly didn't at that one.

* * *

XVIII

After nearly eleven exhausting, exhilarating months since their remarkable meeting, today will be the day the charade finally ends.

Irene is woken by rain pelting mercilessly against the window in the early hours of the morning. It's still dark, but the thought of staying in bed knowing what lies outside brings little comfort to Irene, who is unable to hold back the chill that is seeping through the rotting wood of the window pane and from under the door into the room.

She clambers down the ladder slowly so as not to wake Sherlock, although she knows it's more than likely he is just lying awake with his eyes shut. There is a stabbing pain from the iciness of the floorboards that shoots through the soles of Irene's feet. She hisses in displeasure. Sherlock frowns at the sound and opens one eye to look at her.

Even with only one eye open, Sherlock still manages to reveal as much of his mood. Wordlessly, he sits up and pats the space next to him.

"There'll be a storm before dawn." He declares to her as she keels beside him on the mattress. "There's no doubt we'll have a loss of power at some point." He takes a deep sigh and says painfully "Little to do but pace the room."

There is a great forlornness to his posture as he says this. They have made little progress since they arrived, but with the prospect of a blackout, they can't even pretend to be making progress. Irene knows that Sherlock does not have patience for such things. He does not take forced idleness well.

It hurts her terribly to think of how he'll spend the day, staring out of the window for hours, or hanging down from the top bunk with a dreadful emptiness in his eyes and the stillness of a corpse while she tries to read. That's what had happened the last time they were stuck in the room due to torrential rainfall.

He moves further back so he is resting against the wall, and makes no sign at the cold that must be felt through his silk shirt. The smallest amount of light from the moon enters the room through the window screens. It illuminates Sherlock's face, but makes him look bleaker than ever.

The deafening calamity of the storm churning above their heads makes it difficult to make conversation, and Irene knows Sherlock lacks a desire for it anyway. She's almost unbearably cold and has this wild thought that detaching herself from the cold silk of her nightdress may help somewhat. What surprises her is the innocence with which she thinks of it.

Such an idea is what starts the motion of thoughts of a more lustful nature. She starts by moving to kneel in front of him.

She shifts her right leg in between his. That Sherlock doesn't flinch is a testament to their growing dependence on each other, but he does lift his head up to her as if to ask "what ever are you up to?". The mattress protests loudly in the emptiness of the room as it sinks almost straight through to the wooded slats underneath, but that's not the first thing Sherlock notices.

It's the heat of her as she settles on his thigh followed by the sudden urge he has to roll his hips that he manages to resist only due to years of restraint. Her eyes remain fixed on his as she places her hand on his chest and trails them upwards, as if she were showing her determination to stay within his territory.

"You never answered me on our last night together, Mr Holmes." She speaks with a soft tone that he dares to think is saved only for him.

With dexterity he did not expect with her false nails, she undoes the button on one of his cuffs and tenderly runs her fingers tips over the ridges of his veins.

"To which question are you referring, Irene?"

The use of her first name surprises her; she takes her attention from his wrist and once again looks at him.

"I've never had a man." She admits before she even thinks of what she is about to say.

Sherlock seems unaffected by her confession and replies, "And I've never had a woman."

"I think," Irene begins, her arms dropping down from Sherlock's chest, "I think perhaps, due to our current circumstances," she says, nodding towards the window, "We ought not to have dinner-"

"-And simply move straight to the part where we have each other instead?"

Sherlock manages to keep a perfectly straight face, although there's a softness to it that Irene doubts people see often. She could prolong this act between them, but her want to do so is lacking.

He takes her mouth before she comes to a decision.

Irene despises the thought of being perceived as a drippy woman and has always for as long as she can remember. Only in a professional sense would she allow herself to consider how others would be in bed.

But upon meeting Sherlock Holmes, she hasn't been able to help but wonder how he'd be as a lover, and more specially, how he'd be when making love to her.

Would he be the kind to have her pressed against a wall, arms pinned, with the door barely closed behind them? Perhaps he'd like to them to play wrestle on the bed, until they found themselves pressed against each other with the heat seeping through their laughter? Or would he be a blushing, fumbling virgin like Moriarty had told her, getting worked up and irritable at the complex workings of her lingerie?

On their first meeting, when she had strutted into her drawing room in nothing but her skin, a pair of Louboutin pumps, and her warpaint, Sherlock took his first look at her and doubled back, without so much as a word.

Although such behaviour may well have suited Sherlock's disguise, Irene was aware that at that precise moment Sherlock had done away with his performance. She walked towards him and plucked the collar from his shirt. All the while, Sherlock tried pathetically to maintain his dignity.

But Sherlock's pride was past saving; Irene had felt his shifting gaze as she'd stood in the doorway. He'd remembered her measurements after all, and later on Irene wondered what less analytical things he would remember about her frame: scars, birthmarks and perhaps – if she dared herself to think – something a little more...carnal.

As she had worked the room, Sherlock yielded to her. With an awkward posture that showed his blatant astonishment, he leant back in the sofa and merely watched as she loomed over him.

Irene was taken aback at such a quick display of submission. It was hard to decide is she was pleased or just a little disappointed.

But she needn't have worried. On the bottom bunk, in a rundown Youth Hostel in Edinburgh, their legs entwined, Sherlock was everything and nothing she had expected all at once.

Sherlock doesn't quite see how this came to be. Even if in his mind he can barely admit it, it seems that really all they have been doing is building up to this moment. John always seemed to think that their banter was some form of flirting, and although Sherlock despised the word, there way no denying that her intellect and her...conversation, if you could call it that, was pleasing to him. Maybe he denied it because he saw himself above it. Or maybe he was unable to recognise it, because he had never allowed himself to be sentimental.

In regards to courting, in their own dysfunctional way, was that not what had been happening all along? Sherlock found his own form of peace in that thought.

His fingertips dance just under the hem of her nightdress as he kisses her. The chill of the plum coloured silk with the slight warmth of her skin is more intense than Sherlock could have ever expected. He shows his pleasure by shifting Irene so that she rests astride both his thighs, and he feels her whimper against his lips. And when Irene pulls away to breathe, he barely allows it before he takes her mouth again, kissing the corner of her mouth and relishing in the fact that she isn't wearing her rouge lipstick.

"Wait-" Irene says, "Your ribs?"

Sherlock leans back towards her and hums against her lips, "I'm fine. The drugs are strong enough. Besides, it may make it easier for me. I could do with another reason to stay in bed."

Irene dares to squirm a little in his lap. "Surely you've found two ways?"

The thought of them passing hours in bed together makes Sherlock growl from the back of his throat. That wouldn't be time wasted at all.

Much like he has done for his whole life, Sherlock chooses to display his emotions without words. He looks up at Irene, who now leans over him with her arms wrapped around his neck. Her weight rested on the very tops of his thighs as Sherlock asks her an unspoken question with both his hands clutching the hem of her garment.

She allows herself the slightest of smiles. "Go on." She says, with sincerity and a softness which she had not brought to the bedroom in some time. There is neither a smirk or a cocked eyebrow to hint at the suggestiveness in her words, only the desire to show Sherlock her willingness in this act. With this realization, Irene takes some initiative herself, being the one to lean toward him and caress that unbearably sensual curve of his top lip with hers.

Slowly, her slip is hitched up her thighs. With awkwardness Irene hadn't felt since a teenager, she raises her arms in the cramped quarters of their bunk as Sherlock reveals her.

With his eyes never leaving hers, he throws her garment over a rung on the ladder of the bunk.

Even though she is in nothing but her knickers, Irene is proud and defiant in Sherlock's lap, her posture impeccable. At that initial moment of near nakedness, she is thankful that she is comfortable in her own skin, for although Sherlock's eyes seem to be shifting back and forth across her face, she is sure that he is taking in every single inch of her in his periphery.

To bring him back out of his thoughts, she raises a hand and cups the side of his face, her thumb trailing back and forth across his cheekbone. "Hello you," she whispers gently.

For a matter of seconds, Sherlock does not respond, only turns his head to kiss her palm.

"Irene," He begins, clearing his throat in an unsuccessful attempt to clear the hoarseness from it, "You are unlike anything-"

For fear of being overwhelmed, Irene consumes his mouth with hers, almost knocking him back with the force of it. His arms reach out to steady her.

Cradling the back of her head with one hand so as not to bump it on the bunk above them, Sherlock wraps his other arm around her waist and moves ever so slowly to lay her down on his coat, which lays beneath them. Without taking his lips from hers, he lies between her thighs and buries one of his hands into the chaos of her hair, now fanned across the pillow.

There is no lull in the pleasure he is able to give her. So deeply is she immersed in the small cove of warmth and skin they have created for each other that it takes some time for her to realise that not only is Sherlock still fully clothed, but also how reserved he still is.

His lips take their first ever voyage across her jaw before inching slowly down her neck, his lips never leaving her but instead gliding along her skin. Her hands come to rest on his upper back and she can feel the tense muscles underneath the ribbon of bandages that are stopping him from laying flush on top of her. The panting of his breath she feels on her skin could either be of pleasure of a sort or self induced frustration.

She will not allow there to be any of the latter. If Sherlock is to feel any frustration today, it will be a wonderfully nasty sort of frustration and it will be caused by her and her alone.

"Why so much restraint?"

Sherlock lifts his head and rests his forehead against hers. She swears she hears him whimper.

"You've never lain with a man." Sherlock states, his hand now running up her arm to prevent her want from dissipating. He's knowledgeable enough in this field to know that a woman's pleasure takes commitment and is never to be ignored. "I do not want to..."

He needn't say. It is true that as far as physical intimacy with a man is concerned, Irene had very little experience. Note: physical intimacy. But not physical encounters, which is what her entire career is based around. This, she knows, is entirely different than standing at the foot of the bed in her lingerie without a throb of pleasure as some man finds satisfaction in any number of taboo positions and scenarios.

But her want for him is down to almost everything but his sex. Sherlock being male is simply a coincidence.

She lifts herself up so she is able to whisper heatedly directly into his ear, ignoring the burn of her muscles as she does so. "Show me, Sherlock."

With a kiss to the lobe of his ear, she lies back down and watches with hungry fascination as Sherlock shuffles himself down the bed a little, before dipping his hand between their bodies and undoing the clasp on his trousers.

He nods slowly and lowers his eyes as if he is feeling exposed. Noticing this, Irene moves her hand up under his shirt to rest on his chest and tilts her head back on the pillow to give him a hint of privacy.

A tingling anticipation fills her as she focuses on her other senses. Because she cannot see him, it seems he is taking his time and making her wait. Or perhaps that's because she is feeling dreadfully impatient.

There is the slightest sigh of pleasure from Sherlock, most likely from releasing the pressure from his tailored trousers, Irene thinks. Then, there is the rustle of fabric as he kicks his clothes off the bed to the floor. And then finally, is the dip of the mattress as he crawls back up the bed toward her.

A warmth floods through her as she is able to feel the naked skin of his legs pressed against hers. As he entwines their hands, Sherlock finally comes into her vision, his face so close to hers that his curls skim across her cheeks.

He presses his body flush against her and ever so slowly rolls his hips.

"Oh…" Sherlock whimpers. Burying his face into the crook of her neck is the only way Sherlock can think to try and deafen his sobs as the pleasure burns white hot up through his spine. "God..."

Irene bites on her bottom lip and cradles his head closer to her as he lazily moves. With a renewed confidence he lifts his head once again. Although there is no flush of arousal and only the smallest beads of sweat along his forehead, Irene is immediately drawn to his eyes. They are almost entirely black with the smallest periphery of blue, reminding her of a solar eclipse.

Perhaps it's due to the cocaine withdrawal, the pair of them both waiting for it to rear its head without either of them admitting to it, but Irene is forced to slide her fingers into his curls and frame his face for support when he looks up at her. He seems to be shivering, yet his skin feels surprisingly warm.

It may be a wicked, wicked thing to do, but Sherlock has no desire for his recreational habits to come in conversation when there are much more interesting things to do. He rests his head on her chest, and immediately takes the peak of her breast between his lips.

That is when Sherlock first hears her, a sharp gasp that seems to get caught in the back of her throat when she arches her back up towards him, giving him the opportunity to slip his arm underneath her. With a new found strength, he clenches one hand in the duvet and lifts her upper body closer to him.

The satisfaction he gets from just the slightest signs of pleasure from her is far too one sided. Usually it would take ridiculous amounts of dedication and skill to get results in the laboratory, or countless hours reading journals and books for the smallest morsel of knowledge. And even then, that information would be stored in his mind palace for months, sometimes years, always carrying the risk that it might never be used.

Yet for some reason, when Irene whimpers and digs her heel into the small of his back, or clutch the curls on the back of his neck with a fierce desperation, the aching muscles of his back seemed not to matter.

Not only that, but these signs of satisfaction that Irene give him seem to almost be as rewarding as the intellectual work to which he had previously dedicated his life to. He can't help but think that in some ways it's unfair that there is something much easier to gain and work for that can be just as– if not more, it would all depend on how the event itself turned out- rewarding.

Eventually his hand, which had been clutching her thigh to wrap it more firmly around him, trails up to her lacy undergarments. This time, there is no need to ask permission. Instead Irene responds by dragging her foot from the small of his back, down across the curve of his behind to rest on the band of his underwear.

"Please." She asks when Sherlock pauses.

Usually the pair's dynamic works in a sense of give and take, or rather, trying to 'one up' each other whilst appreciating each other's wit and intellect. This is one of the first times they do something together.

Irene pushes his underwear down his upper thighs with her feet. Her deftness and her flexibility makes Sherlock quiver between his thighs. He wants to test her boundaries, but thought shocks him in its vulgarity.

And then shocks him even further when he gets the same physiological response in the afterthought.

The first discovery that Sherlock makes (that could even be partly related to science and not just ensuring that their joining is gratifying) is that no matter how many times he has the same thoughts of them together, and no matter how many times they may repeat the same actions, he will never be desensitised.

They gasp almost simultaneously at the first to touch of their naked skin. If only for a second, a flash of lightning illuminates the room, Irene letting out another gasp in surprise.

Sherlock's voice comes from around her navel, and although his lips may stray to her hipbone, or the warm curve of her belly, there is no denying where he is heading.

"You don't have to..." Irene suggests as she lifts herself up onto her elbows. It is her job to be aware of other people in the bedroom, and the amount of new experiences Sherlock has already felt in such a short time - not to mention the ones to come – could be enough to overwhelm or traumatise anyone, even him.

The sight of him is almost obscene in its eroticism. He blinks owlishly from between her thighs, runs his tongue along his bottom lip and bows his head until all she can see and feel are his unruly curls tickling her inner thighs.

Without hesitation, he rests his hands on her hips, and tastes her.

Immediately her hand reaches out for the top of his head. He pants against her flesh as she winds his hair around her fingers and pulls. His tightened grip on her hip suggests his sensitively here, but it seems the pair of them find this connection grounding.

Although the muscles in her thighs and arms quiver with his touch, she is determined to watch, if only for the occasional flash of his tongue or the way he occasionally flutters her eyelashes against her sensitive skin.

When he finally reaches that part of her, she tosses her head back and loses her composure. Sherlock pulls away and turns his attention to warmth of her inner thighs, his thumbs circling the skin of her lower belly tenderly.

"Shhh now..."

And she'd be more than willing to quiet down, if he weren't so...persistent! My God, she wonders how she could ever have expected anything less of him. Of course he would still be analytical about this - even if he were still somewhat a man lost to desire - of course he would be able to determine what she liked quicker than any lover she'd had previously.

With no recollection of how much time has passed, Irene comes back to some sort of consciousness, now aware of more than just the heat that makes her toes curl. Sherlock can no doubt feel it now that her leg is slung over his shoulder.

She can hear herself panting helplessly, and now notices Sherlock situation more clearly as well. Indecent as he looks, lying with his head between her thighs, Irene feels a sense of sympathy when she notices his hips rolling against the bed. She understands his need.

"Sherlock."

A sharp intake of breath is heard from Irene when he looks up, his lips swollen and glistening with her.

"But-"

"No." She insists, although her voice wavers with her want. "We do everything together, do we not?"

He gives a lop sided smirk, before slowly moving up her body, kissing her skin as he goes.

At the first touch of him pressed against her, they gasp against each other's lips.

"Wait-"

Her hand, which is in the process of sliding down his chest, pauses. "What is it?"

He eyes the blister pack that lies on the table beside the bed. Her eyes follow the same trail.

"I understand you are...safe. And although you may not have thought of it, I want you to know-"He pauses when she cups his cheek, showing her attentiveness, "I'm safe, as well. John tested me not four months ago." His voice breaks on the last sentence. "Certainly nothing intravenous since then."

When she doesn't reply, he simply huffs out a breath as if to get over the atmosphere pressing down on them and gives her a small smile as she finally takes her hand from his face.

Irene reaches her hand down between them and skims her fingers lightly over him, before taking ahold of him in a sure, steady grip that is a testament to her profession; she sees his eyes blow wide at the touch, and his body rocks forward. She has never felt more honoured to see Sherlock so uninhibited.

"Deep breath." Irene whispers to him, although she fears it may be also be advice for herself.

He looks as though he may question her, but the warmth of sliding inside her envelops his entire body. He takes that breath without thought, shoulders shuddering when he breathes out, and Irene wraps an arms around his neck to help him through it.

Though that's not to say the feeling isn't intense for her too. Although the feel of him is not unlike some sexual acts she has undertaken in the past, there is absolutely no doubt over which she prefers. There's the heat of him inside her that radiates throughout and above all, didn't believe in until now.

As he stills, their hips now aligned, Irene opens her eyes to find him hovering above her, his eyes squinting in an attempt to hold back some of the sensory stimuli.

But of course, it's common knowledge that losing a sense will cause the others to compensate. Sherlock is all too aware of her feet that are skimming along his calves, before her ankles come to cross at the small of his back, or her already somewhat laboured breathing that he can feel against his cheek, and above all else, the rhythmic pulses of her muscles where they are joined.

It only takes one thrust before his eyes reopen, and he lunges forward to kiss her with a passion that has her whimpering against him. Moving inside her is something he is able to do with little thought, but that does not at all diminish the feeling of doing so.

Although in a position of dominance, Sherlock is not at all overbearing. Irene is not used to the feeling of being taken, and Sherlock seems to know this by grabbing one of her legs and slinging it back over his shoulder, allowing her some control.

She hums in approval, and pushes back some curls now slick against his skin as he lies against her, cheek to cheek. It's by some miracle that the storm outside seems to muffle the sounds of them, for even they may be embarrassed.

At another flash of lightening, Irene gets a glimpse of Sherlock back, pale and glistening with sweat. His muscles shift and clench as he moves inside her. Her hand winds under his arm to grip his shoulder blade so she can feel him moving in the darkness of the room and, even if she doesn't wish to admit it aloud, to hold him closer to her.

With his head resting on her shoulder, he tilts his head towards her and uses the angle to his advantage. Timed with a particularly deep thrust that gives her a delightfully painful jolt up her lifted leg, he buries his head closer to her and laps at her neck.

He is rewarded with her digging her nails into him, panting "'Lock," with a vigour that seems to help spur him on. She'll have to remember that.

Sherlock is aware that drugs work in much the same sense that sex does, chemically at least. But there is one aspect that drugs do not provide.

He is able to push that thought aside, though, focussing instead on Irene, the sound of her whimpering against his neck, and the writhing of her body. Even though he can feel the effects of his oncoming release – his burning muscles and the sweat he can feel at the back of his neck – it isn't until he hears her say his name like that, without her usual eloquence and discipline, that he feels it. And according to his body, reaching it seem to be the only thing that now matters.

He doesn't dare think of comparing this to the rush of chasing a criminal through the tunnels of the London Underground, as he had done but a few months ago, because he is already quite aware of what will reign.

With a burst of adrenalin, he lifts himself up, eyes roaming over the flush blooming across Irene's chest and neck, her shallow breathing and the way her eyes demand his attention. As much as he wants to bring Irene along with him, he simply can't stop. His hand punches the mattress in fierce frustration as he feels himself veering on the edge, but Irene runs a thumb over his knuckles to calm him.

Leaning on his elbow for support, he allows Irene to guide his hand to where they are joined. The angle allows him to see as well as feel him pushing into her. It's almost too much.

"Better be quick, hmm?" She whispers in his ear when his hand remains still.

Leaning forward to kiss her in an attempt to hold back his groans, Sherlock circles his thumb around her and growls appreciatively when she removes her leg from his shoulder and unconsciously pinches him between her thighs. The heat is near unbearable.

"Irene," He keens, "Oh fuck..."

Baring his teeth, and completely unaware of anything expect her starting to contract around him, he detaches from himself and becomes consumed.

All he remembers of her is how both her hands end up buried in his curls, desperately bringing him closer to her as she whimpers "Yes, yes, yes..."

He almost collapses on top of her as the exhaustion hits him. Their kiss, once passionate and all consuming is barely them breathing against each others' lips. Sherlock moves to lie on his back and finds that he is not displeased when she lies against him. They are able to fall asleep once again, even as the storm rages onward.

It is a little time later, when they both lie under the duvet with her resting her head on his chest, Sherlock's hand running lazily through her hair and with the storm finally beginning to wane, that they are forced to return to their situation.

All of a sudden, she rests her head in her palm and looks at him with clarity that neither of them have felt since before their union. He removes his hand from her hair.

"Was it better than the cocaine?"

So she does know, then.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I couldn't bear to make life harder for you than it already was." She admits, before leaning towards him and kissing his cheek. "Besides you haven't done it since I arrived, have you?"

His eyes roam her face. "No. I believe I've found something much better."

In a sudden desire to taste her again, and with an intensity he didn't think he had the energy to possess, he tilts his head and presses his lips to hers.

* * *

XX

They make love in the bath that morning. It may be as cramped and awkward as the bed, but the churning water that occasionally crashes over the side onto the tile is an image that Sherlock will not forget in a hurry.

Nor the ache of his jaw from clenching his teeth together while she did all manner of tantalising things with her hips while in his lap.

A few hours later when he kisses her forehead - his lips lingering on her skin for as long as he can manage - and departs, Irene thinks it one of the most painful moments of her life.

But it's not.

It's having to stay put in their room for another two nights to make sure all of Moriaty's henchman are hot on Sherlock's trial and not lingering around Edinburgh for her. It's having to sleep on the bottom bunk because it smells of him and having to use the bath and throw away those stupid bread crusts she finds under her suitcase when she's finally able to pack.

But it won't be long. She tells herself. Six more months, he said. A year's hiatus, and he'll return.

* * *

_Some time later, In London_

It's only once he reaches the bay window of her hotel room that he drops his bag at his feet. No matter how many times he sees that view, it still makes his heart jump a little in his chest.

"Welcome home."

He closes his eyes and quirks his lips.

"To you, as well." He replies, before clearing his throat. "I have been meaning to apologize-"

"Yes quite right." She moves towards him until he can see the outline of her in the window. "You promised me six months Sherlock. If I'd have known it would've been two and a half more years...honestly."

"If it's of any use to you-" He pauses when he feels something hard pressed against the back of his upper thigh. Riding crop. "Irene?"

There she goes, biting her bottom lip again. His breath falls short.

Irene finally stands behind him, murmuring into his ear. "Yes well, you've heard the saying: measure your guilt, then spread your legs."

Facing a view of the Houses of Parliament and the Millennium Eye, a beaming grin on his face, Sherlock leans forward to grip the window ledge.


End file.
